Poor Little Bitch Girl

  “Yes,” he said, giving me a full-on knowing look. “That’s exactly what you were thinking.”

  I smiled back at him. Suddenly I felt very comfortable in the apartment of a man I’d only met two hours earlier.

  I sat on his couch sipping hot chocolate, praying that Frankie Romano would call me back soon and put Annabelle on the line so that I could get the hell out of here and back to L.A.

  Although . . . things weren’t so bad. Sam was quite attractive in a lean and lanky way, and I had to admit that we were definitely on the road to a major flirtation.

  Was I being unfaithful to Mario?

  Hell, no! It’s not as if Mario is my boyfriend, and it’s not as if I’m about to jump into bed with Sam.

  Although . . . the thought had crossed my mind.

  From a total dry patch to a couple of hot contenders, and all in the course of two fun-filled insane days. This was kind of crazy.

  “You hungry?” Sam asked, moving over to an open-plan kitchen. “I could fix us some eggs, or if you’re really starving there’s a spaghetti joint around the corner.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” I asked, jumping off the couch and following him across the room.

  “Oh,” he said vaguely. “Could be ’cause you’re smart and appealing and I took an instant like. You’re also gorgeous.”

  Gorgeous?!! Was he talking to me with my bed-head, red nose and shivering body?

  “Hmm . . .” I said. “Have you recently returned from a desert island where you were deprived of female company?”

  “Can’t take a compliment, huh?” he said, teasing me.

  “Never been adept at that.”

  “Well, you are gorgeous,” he said. “You’ve got that Julia Roberts thing going for you.”

  “Pretty Woman or Erin Brockovich?” I asked caustically.

  “The hooker or the smart babe,” he mused. “Now that’s what I’d call a great combination.”

  “Will you stop,” I said, although I couldn’t help smiling.

  He laughed, and leaned his elbows on the counter-top. “I recently got dis-engaged from a total bitch.”

  “You did?” I asked, perching on the edge of a high stool, relieved that the conversation was taking a new direction.

  “Right on I did. Caught her screwing my best friend. How cliché is that?” He shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe it had happened to him. “If I wrote it,” he added wryly, “I’d get laughed off the page.”

  “I wouldn’t laugh.”

  “How’s that?”

  “’Cause it’s always the best friend,” I said airily. “Never fails.”

  He gave me a look. “Personal experience?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said firmly.

  “How about you?” he asked, striving to keep it casual. “Are you in a relationship right now?”

  “Absolutely not,” I repeated. And after a meaningful pause I couldn’t help asking, “Are you?”

  “Absolutely not,” he said, mimicking my voice. Then he burst out laughing.

  I think I could like this guy. Infectious laugh, Owen Wilson looks, a writer, and he has a sense of humor.

  Of course I suspect that he doesn’t possess killer abs like Mario, but are abs really that important?

  No. They just look nice on the page.

  “So,” Sam said, flexing his long tapered fingers, “what did we decide? Spaghetti or eggs?”

  He’d just used the we word, as if we were a couple, which we are most definitely not.

  “If spaghetti means venturing outside,” I said, pantomiming a mock shiver, “then my vote is for eggs.”

  “A fine choice,” he said, opening up a cabinet door and taking out a frying pan. “Forgive my ego, but I’m a master chef with eggs.”

  “You are?”

  “Oh yeah. Scrambled? Over easy? Poached? Or how about an omelet?”

  I glanced at my watch – it was almost eight. Was there any chance of finding Annabelle and getting her on a plane tonight? Hardly likely.

  “Scrambled’s great,” I said.

  “Soft? Hard?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The eggs.”

  We both grinned. I felt as if I’d known him for at least a week.

  “Soft,” I murmured, all thoughts of Mario definitely leaning toward the back-burner.

  “That’s the way I like ’em too,” he said, opening the fridge and removing a cardboard carton of organic eggs.

  “Y’know,” I ventured, “as soon as we’ve eaten I should start finding a hotel.”

  With his back to me he casually said, “You can stay here if you like.”

  Oh crap! I’d probably sounded as if I was hinting. How pathetic!

  “That’s okay,” I answered quickly. “I, uh, love staying in hotels.”

  “Really?” he said, not believing me for a minute.

  Was I sounding more pathetic by the minute or what? “I love staying in hotels.” Truth is, I hate hotels, ever since I’d gotten bitten by bedbugs in a hotel in Phoenix when I was tracking down some information on a cheating wife for Felix.

  The sound of Beyoncé’s “If I Were A Boy” filled the room. My BlackBerry was in action, so I hurriedly groped in my pocket and extracted it.

  “Tomorrow morning,” Frankie Romano said, all business. “Ten a.m. at our apartment in SoHo. Do you know where that is?”

  Duh . . . yes.

  “Book two first-class tickets on the two o’clock United flight to L.A. An’ make sure you have a limo to take us to the airport, and one at the other end. We’ll need a suite at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and a car and driver on twenty-four-hour alert. See you at the apartment.” And without waiting for me to say a word, he hung up.

  Mission accomplished.

  Or so I thought.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Carolyn

  Since Carolyn was playing the kindly neighbor, Kerri felt that she should at least make an effort and go with her to Nellie’s apartment.

  Carolyn had not intended to visit Nellie again so soon, but as she’d used her as an excuse to leave the shopping mall, she’d had no choice since Kerri had opted to accompany her.

  Once there, the two of them sat around making idle conversation with the garrulous old woman for over an hour. Nellie was all agog about the murder of the famous movie star, Gemma Summer Maestro. She had all sorts of theories about what could have happened. And when she’d exhausted the various scenarios she’d conjured up, she began delving back in time and reminiscing about the Fatty Arbuckle scandal that had taken place in Hollywood many decades earlier. Next she started speaking about Marilyn Monroe and her connection to John and Bobby Kennedy. “I knew Marilyn,” Nellie revealed with a secretive smile, indicating that they might have been close. “She was such a luminous beauty. Big-boned though. It didn’t matter – every man she ever met fell in lust with her. It was a sight to see.”

  After ten minutes of Marilyn and the Kennedys, Nellie returned to the subject of Gemma Summer’s murder.

  At that point Carolyn decided it was best not to mention that when she was a kid she’d attended several birthday parties given for Gemma’s daughter, Annabelle, at the Maestro mansion. For some misguided reason her mom had forced her to go, claiming it was the polite thing to do since the entire class was invited. She was ten – how could she argue?

  At every party she’d hovered awkwardly in the background watching while circus clowns performed, live elephants paraded across the manicured lawns, and a line of ponies ferried the children around in circles. There was also a huge party tent with tables loaded with hot dogs, hamburgers, pizzas, cookies and cakes. Carolyn remembered there being enough food to feed the homeless for a year.

  Gemma Summer had only appeared when cameras were rolling. Carolyn recalled thinking that she had not seemed like a very hands-on mother, but then Annabelle was hardly the easiest of daughters. Annabelle was always boasting and showing off, flashing her privileged life in f
ront of all the other kids.

  Fortunately for Carolyn, when Annabelle turned thirteen, the parties stopped. Or at least to Carolyn’s relief the invitations stopped coming. It was then that she’d palled up with Denver, and they’d formed an unbreakable friendship.

  Denver had not called her back, which was surprising in view of the cryptic message she’d left on her voicemail.

  God! She had to tell someone her exciting news soon or she’d burst!

  * * *

  “In every way we can, we gotta break the cycle of fatherless kids gettin’ caught up in gangs,” Ramirez lectured, his long pockmarked face a stern mask, his tone loud and harsh. “When there’s no father in the house, an’ the mother’s strung out on drugs or mebbe she’s taken two jobs to keep the family goin’, that’s when these boys choose a new family – the family that operate on the streets. An’ I should know. I was one of them.”

  The group of people standing around him verbalized their approval.

  “The street gangs have a need to keep their army goin’,” Ramirez continued, raising his voice. “So they start recruitin’ kids as young as eleven an’ twelve. By the time they’re sixteen, those children are hardened criminals with no future. We all have to help stop this. It’s our civic duty. An’ we can do it, people.”

  “Hear, hear,” piped up Katy, the English journalist who’d turned up just when Gregory was contemplating a fast exit.

  Gregory had already noticed that she looked petite and quite fuckable in a pair of knee-high UGG boots, tight jeans and a fuzzy blue top, but she came with an unfortunate appendage, and that appendage was her husband, who also happened to be the photographer.

  Gregory was aggravated – he could not believe his luck. One pregnant assistant, and now the girl he had in mind for his own personal pleasure turned out to be married!

  On second thoughts he decided she wasn’t so hot. Too young and chirpy. Her high excited voice with the clipped British accent would soon become annoying. And she quite obviously bit her nails – a disgusting habit.

  Ramirez droned on, while Gregory reconciled himself to the fact that there was no escape until this lecture on gang-life reached its conclusion.

  Katy seemed fascinated, while her husband – a tall, skinny jerk in even tighter jeans than his wife’s – snapped away.

  Gregory endeavored to keep a concerned expression on his face. Not easy. Was Ramirez ever going to shut up?

  * * *

  It’s me again, where are you? Carolyn texted to Denver. Call me as soon as you get this. I have major news.

  She checked her message machine one more time to make absolutely certain that Gregory had not tried to contact her.

  It was a wasted effort. Of course he would not phone her – Sunday was family day. Although, in view of her condition she’d hoped for at least a short message. Surely that wasn’t asking too much?

  Yes, it was. He was most likely busy with his kids, and oblivious to all else. Gregory was a wonderful father, and one of these days he’d be a wonderful father to the baby she was carrying.

  Escaping from Nellie’s apartment had not been easy. The old woman loved to talk, so between her and Kerri’s non-stop chatter, it had been an exhausting day. She couldn’t wait for Monday when she would be back in the office with Gregory a mere few yards away. Meanwhile she had nothing to do except daydream about their future together.

  Nothing wrong with that.

  * * *

  After Ramirez’s neverending lecture, rescue finally appeared in the form of two Latino males in their early twenties who marched straight up to Ramirez – shoving people out of the way – and began harassing him in Spanish, yelling and waving their arms around in a threatening fashion.

  Although it was apparent that Ramirez was attempting to keep his cool, after a few moments he snapped and began yelling back.

  Jesus Christ! Gregory thought. What the hell is going on?

  He took a quick look toward the entrance, wondering if he should just go – get out before this escalated. He didn’t speak Spanish, but the anger taking place between Ramirez and the two men was palpable.

  Katy was open-mouthed, while her husband continued to snap photos – until one of the men flashed him the universal fuck you sign and spat the words, “Quit with the mothafuckin’ camera or I’ll shove it up yo’ mothafuckin’ white ass.”

  Nice to know they spoke English.

  The agitated man returned his attention to Ramirez and the argument continued.

  Katy moved toward Gregory. “Do you speak Spanish, Senator?” she whispered.

  “No, I don’t” he responded, getting a pleasant whiff of her floral scent. “Do you?”

  “They’re fighting about some kind of drug deal,” she said in a low voice. “They’re claiming Ramirez owes them money and that he should pay up or else.”

  “How is he responding?”

  “He’s telling them to get out.”

  “But they’re not listening.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I think the one with the red bandanna might be his brother.”

  Gregory took a second look at the man with the red bandanna tied across his forehead. He was clad in the usual uniform of oversized T-shirt, baggy pants sitting so low they looked ready to fall off, and untied yellow, black and silver sneakers. A large gold medallion hung from a long chain around his neck, while his forearms were covered in various tattoos. He did indeed resemble a younger version of Ramirez, but whereas Ramirez radiated a certain amount of calm, this young male’s face was twisted with bitter anger.

  Katy’s husband had packed away his camera and now he grabbed his wife’s arm. “Let’s go,” he said abruptly. “Who knows where this is heading.”

  “Senator Stoneman,” Katy said, quite wide-eyed, “you should leave with us.”

  “Yes, yes, I think that’s an excellent idea,” Gregory agreed, silently cursing Evelyn for allowing him to get trapped in such a potentially volatile situation. “Lead on, I’ll follow.”

  The moment they got outside, Katy’s husband bundled her into his truck which was conveniently double-parked. He barely gave her a chance to bid Gregory goodbye before taking off, leaving a bemused and somewhat annoyed Senator standing alone on the overgrown sidewalk. Gregory was not at all pleased. What a waste of a perfectly good Sunday.

  As he started off down the street, hoping and praying that his car was parked exactly where he’d left it, a commotion erupted from the front of the center, and the two Latino males who’d been arguing with Ramirez came racing out and began running down the street. A beaten-up old car roared into view.

  Gregory turned to look. Suddenly shots rang out. He felt something graze past his head, knocking him backwards.

  Then he was falling . . . falling . . . and everything turned to black.

  Chapter Twenty

  Bobby

  “I’m getting a strong vibe that this is all a game for you,” Bobby said, coming to the realization that he’d fallen right into Zeena’s cleverly planned trap.

  She’d arrived at his apartment with every intention of luring him into bed, and naturally he’d gone for it. Why wouldn’t he? She was major hot and he had a thing for her. It was a no-brainer. Except why – after the act – did he feel like a girl who’d given it up on the first date? Gotten fucked way too fast.

  Man, he was so mad at himself.

  “A game?” Zeena questioned, casually propping herself up on one elbow, long dark hair draped around her broad shoulders. Totally naked and beyond fit, she was all sleek burnished skin, sinewy muscles and lean loose limbs.

  “Yeah, a game,” he repeated. And then, determined to make a point, he added, “But you know what, Zeena, I’m not one of your toy boys – the kind of guy you can have your fun with then shove aside.”

  “Did I say you were, Bobby?” she drawled, arching a perfectly plucked and penciled eyebrow. “And I should point out,” she added succinctly, “there is nothing little about you. But I’m su
re many women have told you that.”

  “I’m serious,” he said, trying to shake the feeling that she’d used him for her own pleasure and amusement.

  “So young,” she sighed, slowly licking her lips. “Sad that Zeena always gravitates toward the young ones.”

  “How come you’re pulling the age card?” he said, irritated because her cavalier attitude was beyond annoying. “What are you – fifteen years older than me? Today that’s nothing.”

  “Actually,” she opined, leaning across him to reach her crocodile purse she’d placed on the floor beside the bed, her exceptionally large hard nipples brushing against his chest, “you’re more mature than my usual conquests.”

  Conquests! Was she referring to him as a conquest? Goddamn it! Who exactly did she think she was dealing with? He was a Santangelo. He’d better start acting like one.

  Removing a pack of Gauloises from her purse she let forth a low throaty chuckle. “Poor Bobby,” she said mockingly. “So handsome, so rich, but you need to work on your self-esteem, and maybe your lovemaking technique could use some improvement.”

  Shaking his head in wonderment, he realized she was Serenity all over again – a dismissive bitch on wheels trying to screw with his self-confidence. Nobody had ever complained about his lovemaking technique before. As far as he knew he was an accomplished lover, considerate, not too fast, and he was pretty certain he made all the right moves.

  What kind of head trip was she trying to pull?

  “I thought you came,” he said shortly.

  “Zeena always comes, Bobby,” she said, lighting up her cigarette. “She makes sure of it.”

  Now he was really pissed. “What’re you saying? That you don’t need me? That you can do it all by yourself?”

  “Any woman who depends on a man to give her an orgasm is either a fool or in love,” she responded, blowing lazy smoke-rings in his direction. “Zeena discovered that a long time ago.”

  Great, just great. He’d performed to the best of his ability and she was putting him down. Was this her idea of after-play? Most women opted for a smooch and a few kind words. Zeena preferred to go for the jugular.